


This Love Is Ours

by LadyJaneDudley



Category: The White Queen (TV)
Genre: AU, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-17
Updated: 2014-10-17
Packaged: 2018-02-21 13:21:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,909
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2469728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyJaneDudley/pseuds/LadyJaneDudley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A rewrite of some of the Richard/Anne scenes from The White Queen</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Love Is Ours

**Author's Note:**

> from episode ten: The Final Battle  
> Richard puts Anne to bed after their son's funeral.

“My father in battle.

Izzy to her poison.

My baby to her curse.”

Anne’s voice is weary and defeated, but firm as she speaks.

“Anne, please,” Richard is tired. He needs her to be strong, now more than ever.

“A witch’s curse is all it could be, when the weak years of his boyhood were behind him.”

“Anne, I need you, please.” He glances into her eyes, and wonders if his own look as dead as hers. As if all the joy has gone from her life.

She stares silently at her lap. He straightens the bottom of her nightgown, and then lifts her legs up onto the bed. He slips one of her shoes off.

“My son is gone.” The words are startlingly final.

He removes her other shoe, letting it fall to the floor. He focuses on her legs so that he doesn’t have to look at her face.

“Then we must have another” he says at last. Anne’s response is instant, her eyes boring into the side of his head.

“After ten full years of trying? There is no point in touching me.” She says bitterly, “There is no point.”

He looks up at her and her gaze drops back to her lap. She takes a shaky breath and licks her dry lips. He pulls the covers up, smoothing them over her middle, one of his hands lingering there, he brings the other up to cup her cheek. She flinches at his touch; he tries not to show how deeply her reaction wounds him.

“Not even for love?” He asks.

Anne huffs out a sigh and turns her face away from him. She tries to turn her back to him, but he holds her shoulder against the pillow, gently keeping her in place.

 _"_ You do not love me. Even at our own son’s funeral you went to _her_.”

Richard frowns and leans a little closer to her, hoping she’ll look at him. She doesn’t.

“She came to me because you would not.” His tone is angrier than he’d like, but she has to know that. That he tried. That he wanted to be there for her, if only she would have let him.

“You killed those boys!”

Richard feels his face fall before a numb prickling spreads up from his neck and a loud rushing sound in his ears blocks everything out. Suddenly his hands are freezing, but the room is too warm, too small, too dark. He can’t breathe.

Anne turns back to him, her eyes finding his widened ones.

“-and lied to me. This is proof of it.”

They stare at each other, four wetly shining eyes.

Richard feels his throat closing up. He shakes his head.

“I- I didn’t.” He stammers. His hand falls limply from her shoulder.

“I didn’t.” He repeats, his voice barely audible even though she’s only inches away.

Anne fights back her tears and turns her head fully away from him. She slides down in the bed, jostling Richard’s hands. His fingers skim the covers as he pulls away, but he’s careful not to touch her. He straightens and stands from his kneeling position at the edge of the bed.

Anne ignores him.

Richard walks to the door without looking back. _You killed those boys._ The words echo accusingly in his head. _You do not love me._ But he does, even when he hates her. And he hates her in that moment. So much. He needs her so much. _Murderer_. _Liar_. He hates her more than he has ever hated anyone.

His hand is on the doorknob when she starts crying. Loud, shaking sobs that catch in her throat and choke her. He hears the rustle of fabric as she turns over in the bed, and her sobs quieten as she smothers them against their pillows.

He clenches his teeth together, his knuckles white against the cold metal. She rejected him, moved away from his touch. He forces himself to relax his fingers and swiftly opens the door, but he forgets to move and the edge bounces painfully against his toes. He curses and slams it shut again. Pain flares through his hand, receding quickly to a dull ache.

Behind him Anne coughs, spluttering and sniffling, and then resumes crying.

Richard feels his own eyes welling up, and squeezes them shut.

 _You killed those boys. This is proof of it. Our son is dead (because of you). You lied to me. You killed them. You do not love me. Liar. Murderer. Liar. **Murderer.**_ Richard screams, a loud tortured sound that builds and rips from his mouth. He lashes out at the nearest thing – a pile of books on the end of a chest of drawers – and sends them crashing to the floor. The force of the action spins him around and he finds himself facing Anne once more.

She’s sitting up in the bed again, clutching the blankets around herself and looking at him with real terror on her face.

He must not have really, truly, believed that she thought him capable of the cold blooded murder of two innocent children before, because he sees her expression and his heart shatters. For a moment he thinks he’s going to be sick, but the feeling passes, replaced with a light-headed weakness.

He’s lost everything. His father, his brothers, his son, his reputation; and now his wife, his Anne, the one person he’s always been able to depend on, who’s always been on his side.

His legs tremble, but he manages to make it to the bed and climb onto the mattress.

Anne whimpers and pulls her legs up, away from him.

He stills, sitting back on his legs, not wanting to scare her any more. A moment later he realises that she is actually extracting herself from underneath the covers. She crawls forward and sits opposite him, mirroring his pose, a few feet still separating them. She fixes her eyes on his shoulder, and he wipes his hands against his thighs nervously. Anne opens her mouth, hesitates, and licks her lips slowly, stalling. Richard doesn’t try to hide the way his eyes follow the movement. There’s truth to the rumour that he has been absent from her bed for a long time – in the role of lover, at least; they still share an actual bed – but it’s not for lack of attraction. He’s just so busy, and they’re both so worn out, that they’re normally asleep almost as soon as their heads touch the pillows. Sometimes he wakes in the night to find she’s curled against him, his arm pleasantly numb beneath the weight of her head, but she’s never still there by morning.

Anne exhales loudly, twisting her hands together in her lap. Richard doesn’t know whether she’s trying to think of words for an apology for accusing him of murder, or a way to ask him for a divorce. She licks her lips once more, closing them and sniffing, blinking the last of her tears away.

Cautiously, he moves closer to her, until their knees are just touching. Her eyes remain glued to his shoulder, but she doesn’t move away.

He reaches out slowly, and wipes the remaining teardrops from her face with the pads of his thumbs. She sits still, letting him touch her. Her skin is as soft and warm as he remembers, but she feels fragile somehow, as if he might leave fingerprints if he presses just a little too hard. He tucks an errant strand of hair behind her ear, then moves his hands to rest on her shoulders. She still won’t look at him, but he can tell she’s fighting a smile, and she sinks her teeth into her bottom lip when one of his thumbs begins gently caressing her collar bone.

He’s contemplating trying to kiss her when there is a loud knock on the door. It opens almost immediately to reveal Brackenbury and Stanley.

Richard turns to them on the bed and feels Anne shift behind him, moving closer, hiding behind his larger frame. He’d almost forgotten that she was in only her nightgown.

“Is there a problem?” He asks coolly.

“We heard screaming your Grace. We thought…” Brackenbury trails off, shuffling uncomfortably and looking down at the floor. Stanley too seems fascinated by his shoes.

Richard studies them: Brackenbury, white as a sheet; Stanley, with his hand on his sword hilt. Did they think he was trying to murder the Queen? Does _everyone_ think he is a cold-hearted killer now?

“I merely knocked some books over.” He motions to the books on the floor. “Whilst you’re there Stanley, pick them up for me.” It’s not phrased as a question and Stanley, for once, has more sense than to test his young King. He stacks the books back on the chest of drawers and he and Brackenbury bow and leave the room, the latter apologising sincerely for their intrusion.

The door closes behind them and Richard turns back to Anne, but she’s retreating back to the top of the bed. He watches her burrow under the covers and smiles.

He follows her and lies on his side on top of the covers, facing her as she lies on her back beneath them. He throws an arm across her, his hand resting atop her stomach, fingers splayed over the blanket.

They’re silent for a while, her staring at the canopy of their bed and him staring at her. Eventually her hands find his and she fiddles absently with his fingers, linking and unlinking them through her own. Minutes pass.

“You didn’t kill them?” She asks the canopy quietly.

“I swear to you Anne, I don’t know where they are.”

“I believe you.” Her voice cracks, but she turns to look at him and her gaze is steady on his.

He feels better. So much better about everything.

“Thank you.” He murmurs almost reverently, and it’s clear just how much he needed her to say those words.

“I should have always believed you.”

“It is in the past.” He smiles at her, all love, and she smiles back, faint but sincere.

Pulling his hand from hers he slides from the bed and walks around to help her with the blankets, tucking her in. She sighs sleepily.

Richard leans over her, braced against the pillows with an arm above her head. He strokes her hair back from her forehead and kisses her there. “Goodnight, my love.” He says softly, his lips brushing her skin before he moves back to see her face.

“Goodnight,” she answers, “my Richard.”

He laughs, and kisses her, without even thinking about it. She kisses him back, closing her eyes. It’s a chaste kiss, and when it’s over he lets his forehead rest against hers.

“I’m so sorry Anne, for everything.”

“I know, and I am sorry too.”

“You’ve nothing to be sorry for.” He assures her, and she kisses him once more, innocent and half asleep.

“Sweetest dreams.” He says when they part. His hand slides through her hair as he straightens to move away.

“And to you.” She replies, and then she settles down and closes her eyes.

Richard leaves the room quietly, a faint smile playing at the corners of his mouth. He has a few things to attend to before he can join her for the night, but he’s already looking forward to what he’s sure will be better sleep than he has had in weeks.


End file.
